


Missionaries in Position

by deklava



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blow Jobs, F/M, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:55:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, Gregory Lestrade, and Irene Adler are enjoying their usual session when two annoying Americans show up. PWP. Rated M for D/s, dubcon, and just plain weirdness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missionaries in Position

**Author's Note:**

> I totally blame chasingriver for this cracky little piece. We had a PM conversation that gave me a great idea. Please: the following story has no social value. But Sherlock, Lestrade, and Irene do.

"Let's take a break," Gregory Lestrade panted, wiping sweat from his brow. "This room feels hotter than an oven."

"It's not like we have much else to take off either," I agreed, adjusting the shoulder strap on my harness. It was a naughty little collection of black leather strips and steel buckles, and showed off my pierced nipples and shaven pussy to hot advantage. Only my legs were decently covered- in black PVC thigh boots. I flopped in a chair, laid the braided leather cat-o-nine tails across my lap, and said, "Be a darling and bring me a beer, would you?"

"Irene Adler drinks beer?"

I gave my most gracious nod. "Another vice I won't apologize for."

Lestrade, who only wore a tight pair of leather trousers, tossed his belt onto the sofa and walked into the kitchen. He emerged a second later with two chilled bottles.

"Here," he said, handing me one. "Let's take a few minutes and admire our handiwork, shall we?"

"I'm not above tooting my own horn," I agreed.

Both of us looked at Sherlock. He was tied over the back of a wooden chair, wrists secured to the arms and arse elevated. His longish curls spilled over the seat, hiding his face and the duct tape that kept his mouth sealed. He was naked except for a tightly laced leather corset that protected his kidneys from misaimed blows. His lovely arse was marked by red welts from my whip and Lestrade's belt.

Lestrade took a swallow of his beer, wiped his mouth, and called, "Hey, prat."

Sherlock lifted his head and gazed back at us. His face was red and glistening with perspiration.

"Thirsty?"

The detective nodded.

Lestrade rose, went over to him, and peeled the tape from his lips. "I should piss in that rude mouth of yours," he commented, "but I don't have to go yet, unfortunately." He seized a fistful of that luxuriant dark hair, forced Sherlock's face up, and held the bottle to his lips. Sherlock drank gratefully. When he tried to pull away after drinking his fill, Lestrade held him firmly in place and guided the bottleneck further down his throat.

"No, you don't. Go down on it. Suck it off like you would me. Make me horny watching you."

Sherlock's expression immediately became greedy. He bobbed on that glass, slurping and kissing it noisily. I could see Lestrade grow hard beneath the skin-tight trousers. When he was unable to stand it any longer, he pulled the bottle away, yanked out his cock, and plunged into his lover's throat like a battering ram.

"Swallow that dick!" he ordered hoarsely. "And when I come-don't dare spill a fucking drop."

Sherlock obeyed that command so well that I didn't even know Lestrade had come until his shoulders slumped and he backed out of Sherlock's mouth. After stuffing his softening cock back into his trousers, he winked at me, went behind Sherlock, and rolled the still-cool bottle across his colourful buttocks. The detective hissed and cried, "Fuck, that stings!"

"That's terrible," Lestrade said with mock pity. "Now tell me how THIS feels."

He picked up a tube of KY off the writing desk and lubricated the rounded bottle tip. "Open your legs, slut," he commanded. Sherlock bit his lip and shuffled his feet further apart, his bare feet making rustling noises against the carpeting. Lestrade planted one hand on his lower back and eased the makeshift glass dildo into his tight, exposed hole. It sank in easily. Sherlock tensed for a minute, but when Lestrade started working it in and out of his body, he groaned and gyrated his hips.

"Oh, fuck, yes," he panted as his lover/Dom fucked him with the bottle.

"You like this, slut?"

"I'd like your cock more."

"Too bad. You don't deserve it yet. You've got a rough ride ahead of you, I'm afraid. I'll teach you to tell my supervisor that he does a brilliant impression of an idiot."

Sherlock didn't seem too worried by the threat; he stood on his tiptoes to allow deeper penetration. Lestrade rotated the bottle to stroke his prostate, which drove him nuts.

"I'm going to come," he warned, grinding his crotch against the chair back. Lestrade slapped his sore arse.

"Do it and I'll lube this with glue."

Sherlock moaned desperately and pressed his forehead into the seat. A wet patch was forming on the carpet from his steadily leaking dick.

My hand strayed between my legs. I didn't want to come yet, but stroking myself heightened the pleasure of watching the famous Sherlock Holmes get his arsehole plumbed with a beer bottle like a common rent-boy.

Just then, someone knocked on the door. We all froze. When the sound repeated, I got up, tiptoed across the room, and peered through the peephole.

Two young men in painfully clean, pressed suits stood in the hallway, clutching books and looking so nervous that my sense of maternal libido throbbed. One looked like a young Elvis, with black hair combed in a greasers' quiff, and the other was cute in a blond, blue-eyed farmboy style.

There was something familiar about their uniforms, and their books. What was it- wait. Yes. That American religious group founded last year by the former CEO of a computer electronics firm. I'd only paid attention to the news stories because he used to hire me whenever he was in London. I could still remember that he sounded like when I dripped hot wax on him.

"Looks like a couple of missionaries," I called over to Lestrade and Sherlock, keeping my voice low.

"You sure?" Lestrade whispered back.

"I think so. Want to let them in and give them a religious experience they won't soon forget?"

The DI laughed in evil delight. "Miss Adler, I think we pay you as much for your wicked sense of adventure as your strong right arm."

I smiled, unlocked the door, and swung it open. Both young men snapped to attention and said in unison, "Ma'am, we're visiting London to canvass for donations for the church of-"Then they shut up, and their eager-beaver faces turned to shock at the sight of my shaved beaver.

"Please come in," I said graciously, making a big show of readjusting my nipple rings so that the obsidian beads were centered. They gulped and looked at each other.

Lestrade eased the bottle out of Sherlock, arranged his hair so his face was hidden once again, and joined me in the doorway. When they saw him, their eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

"Is there a movie being filmed here or something?" the Elvis wannabe finally asked nervously.

"Just in our own minds," Lestrade replied grandly. "Come in."

They entered with wary, shuffling steps. Both jumped when I shut and relocked the door behind them, but they seemed determined to be brave.

Lestrade gestured to the brocade sofa beneath the window. They approached it, but stopped when they saw Sherlock.

"Holy shit!" the farmboy cried, dropping his book and grabbing his friend's arm. "What the hell's going on here?"

"Such language," I commented. "I'll wager that you two aren't really missionaries. I'll wager, in fact, that you've really come to rob us."

I also bet that they were fuck buddies. I knew squirrels who liked to share their nuts when I saw a pair of them. And, unless my practiced eyes were deceiving me, their crotches were hardening at the sight of all the depravity on display in the room. I decided to take a chance. I went to my bag and pulled out the .44 that I always carried for protection.

"Okay, darlings, let's cut the bullshit." I pointed the gun right at them, trying not to giggle at the sheer terror that gripped their fresh-scrubbed features. "Both of you...take off your clothes."

"Ma'am?" Elvis Junior said in disbelief.

"You heard her," Lestrade snapped. A policeman who went along with my highly illegal sense of sport; my kind of man.

They pulled off their clothes, fumbling in their anxiety. I ordered them to fold the garments neatly on the sofa. They had slim, youthful bodies and nicely-sized cocks which, I noted, were getting harder by the second. They were scared to death, but excited as hell.

"Now, boys," Lestrade said with a nasty smile, "what do they call you back home?"

Farm boy whispered anxiously, "We're cousins. I'm Mikey Jackov and this is Timmy Jerkov."

I burst out laughing. "You're not serious!"

"It's true, honest!"

"Well," I said as I approached, gun still aimed at them, "I'm glad you're being honest, because I'm going to ask you some questions. I'd better be satisfied with what I hear, or I'll turn your heads into glory holes."

They waited. Jackov's thighs were wet. Either he was deliriously thrilled over being our prisoner, or he was pissing himself by gradual degrees.

"Are you two gay?"

Jackov looked at his buddy to answer. "No, _you_ tell me," I ordered, pointing the weapon at him. He flinched at its metal scrutiny and whispered, "Yeah."

"Really." Lestrade looked thoughtful. He was stroking Sherlock's butt while the detective remained motionless. Sherlock was likely dying to turn his head to see what we were doing, but didn't want to take a chance on being recognized. "Come here, and get on your knees behind my friend here."

The youth's cornflower blue eyes wandered over Sherlock's arse, taking in its tightness, the red splotches from the punishment, the slightly open hole. He padded slowly across the rug and sank to his knees. His upturned nose was only inches from the bound detective's butt. Lestrade planted one large hand on the blond head and pulled it forward.

"Rim him out," he ordered. "Shove your tongue deep in his arse. Use your mouth for more than broadcasting dogmatic bullshit."

Jackov timidly pressed his face into Sherlock's butt crack. Lestrade helped him out by pulling the cheeks further apart. I got slippery between my own legs as I watched his tongue dart out and dab wetly at the small ring of muscle. Sherlock moaned and pleaded, "Oh, yeah, that's really nice...deeper, please..."

"Is he getting it in there?" Lestrade asked. "Is he getting you off?"

"Yeah...fucker knows what he's doing."

"Good." Lestrade lowered the waistband of his trousers once again and guided his revitalized erection into Sherlock's mouth. Loud sucking sounds permeated the room, making me crave some action of my own. I sat back in my chair, spread my legs wide, and ordered, "You...blue suede shoes...get on your knees before me."

He did as he was told...smart boy.

"You ever eat pussy before?"

"No."

"Well, get ready to make the team." Keeping the gun trained on him, I shuffled my bottom to the edge of the seat. "Start licking my lips."

His mouth and tongue were warm and wet. I lifted my legs and locked them behind his neck, holding him in place for the duration of my lust. "Suck me," I said breathlessly, grinding my pubic bone against his cute face. "If you let me down, I'm going give you an F...for fucked."

He did his best, I had to give him credit for that. When I made him finger-bang me, my juices spilled out of me and poured down my crack. Through half-closed lids I watched his cousin give Sherlock a hand-job while he tongue-fucked him. Lestrade was still fiercely humping Sherlock's face, muttering obscenities under his breath. The room was boiling once again, and reeking with the musky scent of sex.

"Now jerk yourselves off," I ordered our guests. "Don't pretend you aren't enjoying yourselves. You'll be spilling seed over this till Judgement Day, or whatever it is you believe in."

Their fingers zeroed in on their own crotches and the slapping noise of masturbation added to the erotic chorus.

We all reached Nirvana at once. The two boys curled up on the rug, breathing heavily with exhaustion and renewed fear. Lestrade quickly untied Sherlock and hurried him into the bathroom to take a shower. The detective limped slightly as he moved. When the door was safely shut behind him, Lestrade picked up the guests' clothes and tossed them to them.

"Okay, boys, that was fun, but now you're beginning to bore us. Thanks for helping out."

They looked stunned for the millionth time that night. They'd likely never feel sure of anything again after this.

"You're throwing us out?" Jackov asked. "After all that?"

"Why not?"

"What the hell were we?" Jerkov was almost whining. "One night-stands?"

"More like one hour stopovers," I said. "Get dressed now."

Looking pissed-off as well as nervous, they got unsteadily to their feet and dressed like a pair of awkward preschoolers. Lestrade escorted them to the door while I dried my cunt with an extra towel and got up to stretch my cramped thigh muscles. I was still pacing back and forth before the window, gazing at the lights along the Thames through the curtains, when Lestrade closed the door behind our erstwhile fuck toys and joined me.

"Tired?" he asked.

"No. More like mindblown. Life never ceases to amaze me. You don't think they'll go to the police, do you?"

"And let their brethren find out that they were crotch-diving in someone's flat? Doubt it."

We were quiet for a few minutes. Then Lestrade peeled off his trousers. "I'm gonna go scrub Sherlock's back."

"Got room for one more?" I reached into my toy bag and took out my morning purchase, an enema equipment set. Lestrade laughed and grabbed my hand.

"Let's go," he said, pulling me toward the bathroom door. "The stairway to heaven lies beyond yonder portal."

"Amen."


End file.
